Second

The text came after,

that's the thing that matters.

Not that they planned without me—

that they planned, then thought to see

if I might want to come along,

like I'd ever say no,

like I could refuse

when refusal means proving

what I already know:

I'm not part of the core group,

I'm the addition,

the afterthought,

the optional one

they remember when the main thing's done.

I saw the thread.

The real planning,

where they made decisions,

where they made it matter.

Not a single message from me there.

Just them, talking it over,

deciding the shape

of the thing without my voice.

Then my phone lit up.

A separate message.

Hey, want to come?

I said yes.

I always say yes.

Because maybe this time

I'll be in the first message,

in the real conversation,

in the moment where it counts.

But it's always after.

Always the smaller thing,

always the message that comes late.

Always being the last to know

but the first to say okay,

grateful to be thought of

eventually.

And the timestamp will remember.

The separate thread will remember.

My phone will remember

that I'm second,

never first.